Charon's Claw

“Perhaps I consider you an honorary member of my family,” the spellspinner offered.

“Would that not be a tremendous step down?”

Ravel’s smile disappeared in the blink of an eye, but Tiago’s laughter diffused the tension before it could truly begin to mount.

“How goes the fight for the outer halls?” Ravel asked.

“Your older brother and his pet elementals are proving quite effective,” Tiago answered. “They drive the critters, the corbies, and even the dwarf ghosts, before them. We have found a pocket of orcs, as well, and are . . . negotiating.”

“Do we really need more slaves?”

Tiago shrugged as if it did not matter. “The more hands who serve us, the more quickly the corridors will be bolstered and secured.” As he finished, he glanced over at the outer forges, both ends, where goblins and orcs and even bugbears worked the metal hard, building crude beam supports and thick iron doors, and most importantly, new rail lines and long pegs for the ore carts. Other slaves carried the finished products from the room to the appointed corridors and chambers.

Nearer in toward the central forge, drow craftsmen worked the fires, creating the finer items necessary for refurbishing the infrastructure of the vast complex. Sensitive drow fingers sheared at hot metal to create intricate locks and delicatelooking but strong sections of stairway they could assemble in the larger chambers above, where the previous stairs had been destroyed by the rage of the rampaging primordial.

Tiago’s words resonated with Ravel, the young Baenre could clearly see. It would take years to restore Gauntlgrym, and to secure the chambers, and that was assuming an ample supply of metal. The forges needed no fuel, and that was a tremendous advantage indeed, but the raw materials were not so easily found in tunnels teeming with dwarf ghosts or dire corbies or other untamed monsters.

“Patience, my friend,” Tiago said. “You have exceeded even your own wildest hopes thus far.”

“True enough,” Ravel admitted.

“And now you have something to lose, and so you tremble,” Tiago said, and Ravel nodded.

“Who trembles?” came another voice, and the pair turned to regard the approach of Berellip.

“I was speaking figuratively, priestess,” said Tiago.

Berellip gave Ravel a dismissive glance. “Were you?”

Tiago laughed, but Ravel didn’t follow his lead.

“We were discussing the slow work,” Tiago said. “The long process and road ahead for House Xorlarrin if you mean to proceed with your dreams of creating a city to rival Menzoberranzan.”

“Why would we ever think to do such a thing?” Berellip replied with feigned surprise. “A rival city? That would not please Lolth.”

“It would please Zeerith,” Tiago quipped, again purposely leaving off her title, daring either of the children of Xorlarrin to call him out on his indiscretion, which neither did, though Berellip narrowed her eyes and offered a quiet sneer.

“You know why we journeyed here,” Ravel remarked. “Matron Mother Quenthel knows, as well, as does Archmage Gromph.”

“Have you reservations now, young Baenre, since we have succeeded more than you could have imagined?” Berellip added.

“Nay,” Tiago replied easily. “Quite the contrary. I am pleased by what I have learned and seen. Your progress has been remarkable, and this place— these forges, this source of power, the resonating strength of this complex—is beyond anything I would have imagined. You have the beginnings of a proper sister city.”

Berellip stared at him and seemed unconvinced of his sincerity.

“I would recommend that you send word back to Menzoberranzan,” Tiago added. “You will need more hands, and quickly.”

“Baenre hands?” Berellip asked, her voice full of suspicion. “Will Matron Mother Quenthel send her legions to aid us?”

Tiago laughed at her, thoroughly mocking her with his easy tone and manner, and Berellip stiffened even more. “You do understand that you’re here at Matron Baenre’s suffrage?” he asked. “If we were truly interested in establishing this place for ourselves, then why would we have allowed you to journey here so freely? Why would we not have sent our own expedition to this place?

“Because we do not wish to dissuade House Xorlarrin of its ambitions,” he answered when the Xorlarrins did not. “Matron Mother Quenthel is willing to grant to you this place and your dreams, as we have made clear by our actions, and even more so by our inactions. With the advent of the Netheril Empire, the world has become too dangerous a place for the Houses of Menzoberranzan to so continue their incessant in-fighting, and House Xorlarrin is among the worst of those offenders, even you must admit.”

Despite her stoic posturing, Berellip swallowed hard at that obvious truism.

“And so we’ll allow you to migrate to the outskirts of Menzoberranzan’s domain and influence.”

“As long as our city strengthens Menzoberranzan,” Ravel stated.

“Of course. Were you to rival us instead of working in accordance with our needs, we would utterly destroy you,” Tiago said matter-of-factly, and he had said the same before in other words, of course. He had never made a secret of it to either of these two.

“But you think we should call for more drow to bolster our ranks now,” Berellip remarked, as if seeing the contradiction.

“I never said drow,” Tiago corrected. “The Clawrift could spare a few hundred kobolds, a thousand even. They are clever little wretches and surprisingly adept at mining and working metal. Such a gift from Menzoberranzan would help you greatly here and would hardly diminish Menzoberranzan, of course, since the rats breed like . . . well, rats, and they would quickly replenish their ranks in the corridors of the Clawrift. And driders! Indeed, you should ask for more driders, for I have no doubt that many in Menzoberranzan would be rid of the whole lot of them were we able! Such wretched things.

“Bring them in to your side, I say, and grant them some outer sections to secure and call as their own home.”

“Driders are driders for a reason,” Berellip dryly reminded.

“The Spider Queen would not be pleased?” Tiago asked sarcastically. “Better to put them into service for her, would you not agree?”

“That’s not the point,” Berellip argued.

“It’s entirely the point,” Tiago said, and he dismissed all semblance of being reasonable. “That is the only point . . . to any of this! You’re here, in these halls, to serve the Spider Queen. You’ll be allowed to construct a sister city to Menzoberranzan, if you can succeed, for no purpose other than to serve the Spider Queen. Matron Mother Quenthel allows you this because she serves the Spider Queen. There is no other reason, there is no other purpose. Once you truly appreciate that, Berellip Xorlarrin, you will better understand my counsel, and only if you do come to truly appreciate that, Priestess Berellip, will you and your family have a chance of surviving this daring ‘escape’ from Menzoberranzan. I should not have to school a priestess of Lolth in these obvious truths. You disappoint me!”

With that, Tiago took his abrupt leave, moving to join Gol’fanin, who had started the long task of creating the coveted blades.

Herzgo Alegni stubbornly pulled himself out of the bed and stood to his full, imposing height. The many bandages he wore fought against him as he straightened, but the proud tiefling just pressed through their binding, obviously determined to show no weakness before the withered old warlock. Still, he stumbled a bit, disoriented by the fact that he no longer had a working right eye.

“When will you be ready to return to the land of light?” Draygo Quick asked him curtly, and without even a casual hint that he cared about Alegni’s health in the least—which of course, he did not.

“When I am ordered to do so,” Alegni replied.

“Even this moment?”

“I will leave at once, if you so desire.”

Draygo Quick couldn’t suppress his smile. Alegni was a stubborn one. He could barely stand, his legs wobbly, his shoulders shaking from the strain as he tried to keep them squared.

“You know that you must return, of course.”

Alegni looked at him curiously.

“You left something behind.”

Still the tiefling seemed confused.

Draygo Quick was not surprised by the reaction, doubting that Alegni remembered much of anything of the last moments of that brutal fight. When he’d come into the Shadowfell, so near to death, the great panther tearing at him and biting deep into his flesh, his every action had been reflexive and desperate, his every sound filled with the most profound timbre of agony.

Suddenly Alegni’s one uncovered eye popped open wide and he glanced all around desperately. “Claw,” he muttered.

“They have it.”

Herzgo Alegni turned back to face his master, and his shoulders slumped. This was his failure, of course, and one that was typically accompanied by the most profound and extreme punishment. Netherese lords lived and died, the saying went, but weapons were eternal.

They were supposed to be, at least.

“They live?”

“All three, yes. Indeed, they seem to be doing quite well among the grateful citizens of Neverwinter.”

The tiefling screwed up his face. “Your soldiers failed!”

“My warlord, Herzgo Alegni, failed me, so it would seem.”

Alegni stiffened at that unavoidable truth. “They were three against one,” he explained.

“Four against two,” Draygo Quick corrected. “By your prideful choice.”

“And all of the Shadovar remained at bay!” the hulking warrior insisted.

“Lord Alegni, you are not appealing when you whimper like a child,” Draygo Quick warned. “Your charges—your charges—acted as they had been ordered. You were certain that Barrabus the Gray would be brought under your control, and that your deception would put you alone with Dahlia for your long-desired victory. It would appear that you were not quite correct.”

“Three against one!” the tiefling insisted.

“Four against two,” Draygo Quick again corrected. “Would you so easily forget the drow’s panther companion? Or Effron, who battled the beast for a long while as you played out your folly on the bridge?”

Alegni’s face tightened at the mention of Effron. Alegni wanted to argue, to throw some insult or threat the twisted warlock’s way, Draygo Quick recognized, for how many times had he seen that look?

“You have no one to blame but Herzgo Alegni,” the withered old warlock insisted. “Accept your responsibility. You know what must be done.”

“I must retrieve the sword.”

Draygo Quick nodded. “Back to your rest. The priests will be along, one after the other. Accept their healing and their nourishing spells, for you will face that dangerous trio again soon.”

“I have learned from my mistakes.”

“Good, then I’ll not have to tell you to take others along with you.”

“I’ll need a new weapon . . .” Alegni said, or started to say, for Draygo Quick was done with him and the old warlock turned on his heel and simply walked away.